


In Time We'll Meet Again

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drama, Fluff, Gratuitous Rick Sorkin plotlet, Humor, Love, Lust, M/M, Partly narrated by Grammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 20:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: Harvey gets stuck with a pro bono case which involves Edith Ross, and her grandson, Mike.  Grammy has her own agenda, involving fate, and knitting needles, and failing memory.  It may take more than one try, but she will get Mike and Harvey together.  Eventually.





	In Time We'll Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> So ... sometimes a prompt results in a story based closely on the prompt. And sometimes a prompt turns out to be less of a roadmap, and more of a jumping off point to something unexpected. Here is the prompt:
> 
> "lawyer!Harvey client!Mike: a pro bono Harvey reluctantly takes on following Jessica’s orders. Mike’s grandmother faces eviction from her house. Mike is barely making ends meet working all kinds of jobs and shifts to keep afloat and to care for his Grammy. Harvey barges in with his well-known flair and bigger than life personality but he stumbles in front of (brilliant amazing hard working caring) Mike.   
> • Main Pairing/Character Focus: Marvey"
> 
> Um. I feel I need to apologize to the prompter, because this took a sharp left turn and kept going. The words, though, they do what they want.

**Grammy**

Michael doesn’t know it – and I’ll deny it if you tell him – but I’ve started to forget things.  Random things.  Small things.  The doctors assure me it will get worse as time goes on.

Ironic, isn’t it?  God gifted my Michael with his amazing, flawless memory, and then … well, you get the gist.  Irony, and all that.  Ho, ho.  Good one, God.

Not that I believe in God, necessarily.  I don’t _not_ believe in Him, or Her, or It.  Or Them.  I've learned to stay open to all possibilities.  It’s above my pay grade.  Some might even look upon my sisters and me as gods of a sort, though they would be wrong … but you don’t care about any of that do you?  You want to know about Michael, and how he met his true love this time, in this lifetime.

All right, then, before those particular brain cells shrivel and rot (or however it works in a mortal body), I’ll give it to you, to the best of my recollection.  But remember (see what I did there?), I’ve grown forgetful.  If I leave anything out, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.

So, where does the story begin?  Right … over … there.  (I’m pointing … imagine a gnarled, shaking finger … Ha.  Got you.  I splurged on a manicure just yesterday, with tiny daisies painted near my cuticles.  Pretty cute for old lady hands.)  Where was I?  Right … over … 

Do you see him there, the powerful Manhattan attorney, parked in front of my humble Brooklyn brownstone?  What’s he doing here, of all places, in this rundown neighborhood not yet touched (cursed? blessed?) by gentrification?  Not so coincidentally, he’s wondering the exact same thing.

His driver has stepped outside the car to smoke, and Mr. Harvey Specter, one of the pathologically self-assured princes of Manhattan, unrivaled legal gladiator, is stalling, delaying the inevitable.  He’s tapping and flicking and swiping his fancy cell phone, checking his schedule, checking his emails, checking his portfolio.  All that checking, just to avoid one harmless old woman.  

Me.  (Imagine amused cackling.)

Of course, _Klaxon & Corbel Development _also thought I was harmless.  Their mistake.  They actually believed they could sweep in and force me to sell my home for pennies on the dollar.  They couldn’t have known my grandson is something of a math whiz, who had calculated the building’s true value down to the cent.

They also could not have guessed that many years ago, long before the school system forced me out to pasture, I had a young girl in my sixth-grade class, who showed limitless promise, but was so shy and insecure that I had to coax her out of her shell, and teach her how to stand straight and tall, no matter what the bullies said, no matter how they tried to intimidate her.

To be fair, I had plenty of kids like that, at least one or two a year.  They didn’t all grow up to be scary-good lawyers, and run high-powered law firms.  But Jessica Pearson, who these days puts me in mind of one of the Valkyries, did precisely that.  I try to keep close track of such things.  You never know when you’re going to need an ally.  

Once it grew clear that Michael and I couldn’t fend off _Klaxon & Corbel _on our own _,_ I consulted my rolodex, and knew just who to call.  I fully expected a visit from the great lady herself.  I mean, she’d even mentioned my name in her valedictorian speech all those years ago.  I evidently played a pivotal role in her future success.  (No big whoop.  It’d kind of what I do.)

I’d planned it out so that she would stride into my home, take out the developers with one decisive dropkick, and then turn her attention to Michael, into whom she would knock some damn sense, or possibly pull some strings at Harvard to repair the damage done by Michael and his little hooligan co-conspirator, Trevor.  

Wait.  Before you get the wrong idea, Michael’s a good boy.  Eh.  Essentially good.  He just loves too hard sometimes.  And loves too stupidly.

Anyway, Jessica was meant to get Mike to Harvard.  Harvard would get Mike to _Pearson Hardman_ , where he would meet Harvey.  Yes, that Harvey.  The one sitting outside my home right now, behaving like a fidgety, pouty child, just because Jessica maneuvered him into doing something he did not (with every elegant fiber of his being) want to do.

Jessica, as it turned out, was called out of town on an emergency.  This was an odd enough coincidence, that I did a little digging, and caught a strong whiff of my sister’s influence.  (She doesn’t play a significant role in the rest of this story, so I’m only going to refer to her as “V.”)  I should have anticipated a move on her part.  While I was busy working out the threads of the future, she, as usual, was tangling up the present, and snarling my intricately crafted plan.

“V” always claims she’s only doing her own thing, when I call her on her bullshit, but I know darn well she gets a charge out of tripping me up.  And this time, I think it was also a rebuke for my unprecedented meddling.  

Yes, maybe I went too far, or tried to.  I only wanted them, for once, in this lifetime, to get it completely right.

It should have been a slam dunk.  Those boys are destined for one another.  They’re kind of a legend, amongst legendary beings such as myself.  Lifetimes have brought them together, again and again.  The infinite multiverses may scramble their story, spinning out variation upon variation, but they always find a way.  It would be the study of a thousand years or more to collect and catalogue all the different ways in which they’ve found one another.  

In all those lives, one thing never changes.  It’s always an explosion when they meet.  Sparks.  Fireworks.  Thunder and lightning.

(Or so I'd always assumed.)

Folks, I’m worn out.  I’m old, and tired, and speeding toward entropy.  Is it so bad that I wanted a front row seat to one last, perfect meeting of Michael and Harvey?  Leave it to “V” to try to screw me over.  Fool.  (Bitch.)  My wits may be deserting me, but they haven’t failed me completely.  I’ll get these two boys together again, even if it kills me.

Back to Harvey.  He’s checked everything that can be checked – twice.  He’s opening the car door, beating his driver to it.  He shuts the door behind him, surveying the neighborhood, and heaves a deep, unsatisfied sigh.  

This is not his precious, elevated, accelerated, sleek racing car of a life.  This is life near the ankles – sad, paint-peeling, waiting-for-the-wrecking-ball life.  Harvey straightens his cuffs, smooths imaginary wrinkles from his bespoke suit, flicks invisible lint from the lapels, and begins his slow strut toward the front door.

But where is Michael right now?  He knows about this meeting with The Lawyer Who is Going to Save the Day.  I mentioned it to him fully half a dozen times – twice this morning.  (Didn’t I?  Pretty sure I did.)  He meant to be here.  But he is not even in Brooklyn yet.  He's on his bike, racing toward the bridge, having spent the last couple of hours at Columbia University, sitting inside a lecture hall, taking the LSAT’s for some spoiled rich kid with more money than brains – or integrity.  

This isn’t what Michael wants from his life.  I told you he’s a good boy, and I stand by that.  When my pension fund collapsed, along with half the economy a few years ago, and my second mortgage went into arrears, Michael took a second job, and then a third.  When my health began to fail, and the cost of my prescriptions broke the budget (shattered it, to be precise), Michael could have cut me loose.  I wouldn’t have blamed him.  The pressure on him must have been crushing.  He didn’t do that, though.  He hustled, and he found a way.

It started with one term paper.  Word got around, and the money began to flow in.  He branched out to test-taking last year.  He clearly hates it.  It should be him getting into law school, not Tommy and Tammy Trust Fund.  He smiles less than he used to.  He tries to hide it in front of me, but I can tell that he’s angry.  He’s convinced that life has kicked him square in the junk and left him moaning and writhing, alone in a ditch.  

He may not smile as much, and he may feel defeated, but his heart remains as kind as it ever was.  If he could only lift his gaze to see far enough ahead … to see what’s coming his way ….

Harvey raises a fist … knocks.

Eh, I’m tired.  This old woman needs a nap.  I’ll let someone else continue the story for now.  Maybe I’ll poke my head back in later, and see how things are progressing.  I hope it turns out well.

(A faint cackle.)  

_As_ _iffffffff_ _……_

******

**Harvey**

Harvey knocked, consulted his watch, and knocked again.  He’d raised his fist to knock a third time, when the door was opened by a small, white-haired woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile.

“Edith Ross?” he asked.

“Well, I ain’t Lady Gaga.”

Harvey froze for half a second.  He smiled uncertainly.  “Ah.  I wouldn’t know.”

She opened the door wider and ushered him in.  “Wouldn’t you?  Exactly how old are you?”

He disguised his sigh with a dry cough.  It was going to be one of _those_ meetings, he could tell already.  “You first,” he riposted.

“You're seriously asking how old I am?  Oh, let’s see.  About thirteen billion years, give or take a billion.”

“Huh.”

“I was pretty hot stuff in my hundred millions.  You probably can’t tell from looking at me now.”

“Nonsense.”  He glanced around the living room for somewhere to sit, and then remembered that he hadn’t introduced himself yet.  “In case there’s any doubt, I’m Harvey Specter, from Pearson Hardman.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  He extended a hand.

Mrs. Ross eyed it doubtfully, and then placed her hand inside his.  Her bones felt delicate as spun glass within soft, fragile folds of skin which crackled like ancient parchment.  Maybe she wasn’t lying about her age.

“I suppose we might as well sit down,” she allowed, frowning.  “I cleared off half the couch.  We'll share.  Just don’t go getting handsy with me.  I have a Life Alert button, and an itchy trigger finger.”

“I, uh, wouldn’t dream of it.”  Harvey glanced around the room, taking in the faded, flowery upholstery, the walls covered in peeling faux-velvet, the dusty porcelain and crystal figurines covering every available surface.  Several baskets filled with knitting projects were placed near the couch, needles sticking out like swords or crossbow bolts littering a battlefield from centuries ago.  Which was … weird.  He shook his head to clear it, sucking in extra oxygen.

His nose twitched.  The place smelled like … hmm.  What _was_ that smell?  Myrrh, and frankincense, and evergreen boughs, and fresh heather.  Probably a Glade Plug-in, he decided.  “Will your grandson be joining us?”

He hoped not.  He’d already pegged him for a shiftless grifter, living off his poor, senile grandmother.  Twenty-five years old, and still living with her.  He would want her to sell fast, grab as much of the cash as he could, and spend it on drugs and …well, more drugs, Harvey supposed.  He glanced up, to find Edith Ross dissecting him with her gaze.

“Michael,” she said, “wanted to be here.  Something came up, so it’s just you and me.”

Excellent.  This should go quickly.  He’d have this wrapped up in half an hour or less, and get the hell out of this depressing little neighborhood.  “That’s fine.  Here’s where we are.  I’ve contacted the development company already, and negotiated what I believe is a reasonable selling price, plus a generous relocation allowance.”  He tugged a sheet of paper from his briefcase, and handed it to her.

Edith gave the page the barest of glances, before wrinkling her nose at it and handing it back.  “My home is worth three times that.”

“Not according to – ”

“The only according to I care about is what my grandson tells me.”

Harvey tamped down his annoyance.  “And where, may I ask, did he get his figure?  Spit-balling is not counted as a legitimate pricing method.”  He could hear the condescension dripping from his own voice, but didn’t care.  At least he had resisted the urge to add, _did he pull that number straight out of his ass?_

“Michael started with the original price, adjusted for inflation, factored in current property value assigned by the county tax assessor, and researched comparable property sale prices in this neighborhood for the past year.  But sure, he was just spit-balling.”

Harvey felt his face heat, and his annoyance turned up a notch.  “I don’t suppose,” he gritted out, “that you held onto his calculations?”

Without a word, she handed over a sheet of notebook paper, folded crisply in thirds.   Harvey fumbled it open.  Written neatly in pen was a textbook accurate equation figuring the fair market value on Edith’s brownstone.  Frowning, Harvey pulled out his phone, brought up the calculator, and checked the math for himself.

“Huh.  This … isn’t bad.”  He returned his attention to Edith.  “The problem is, there’s no way they’ll pay this much.  If I take this number to them, they’ll laugh in my face, then turn around and offer less than the amount I brought to you today.  You’ll end up losing your home, regardless.”

“They can’t – ”

“They can, citing eminent domain and decades of precedent.”

“Except their project is a wholly private concern, and not for the public good.”

Harvey’s head whipped around to locate the source of the new voice.  He hadn’t heard the front door open or close.  A young man strolled out of the hallway which, presumably, led to the back of the home.  He wore faded jeans and a burgundy t-shirt with a damp half-circle around neckline. A light sheen of sweat covered his face.

 _Pro bono,_ thought Harvey, looking the man up and down with hot interest, _more like pro boner._

“Michael,” said Edith, “you’re here.  How was … work today?”

Edith and the young man – Michael – exchanged a complicated look.  “It was fine, Grammy.  No worries.”  He turned his attention to Harvey.  “This, I take it, is your pro bono lawyer?”

Harvey stood, irritated and unsure why.  “Harvey Specter.”  He held out his hand, and waited a full five seconds before Michael condescended to shake it.  He waved the page he still held in his other hand.  “Your numbers appear accurate, by the way, but I was just telling your grandmother that it’s unrealistic to expect full market value.”  He retook his seat, and crossed his legs.

“Why?”  Michael stood on the other side of the coffee table from them, arms crossed, scowling.  “If they want to build their precious condo/retail complex on this block, they can pony up.  If not, too bad.  Grammy stays right where she is.”

“Look, Michael – ”

“Mike.”

Harvey shot a quick glance at Edith, who had picked up one of her knitting projects.  Her needles clicked away at speed.  “Fine.  Mike.  Recent Supreme Court rulings – ”

“I don’t give a fuck about those.”

“Michael.  Language.”

Mike gave his grandmother an apologetic look, lips crimped together.  “I’m just saying, those were based on significantly larger projects.  This is one block.  Small potatoes, relatively speaking.  If they take us to court, all you should do is win the first round.  No way are _Klaxon & Corbel_ going to appeal.  They don’t have sufficiently deep pockets for it.”

“And you know this because … “

“Because I did my fucking homework.  Sorry, Grammy.  Did you do yours?  Or did you think you could just show up in your fancy suit, spout some legal-sounding jibber jabber, and except us to fall on the ground and kiss your feet?”

He didn’t even remember standing again, but Harvey found himself on his feet, glaring across the coffee table at Mike Ross.  Arrogant little shit.  “Hey, _junior,_ I’m doing your grandmother a favor, coming all the way out here.  The way this normally works is, clients come to my office.  They listen to what I say, and they follow my goddamn advice – sorry, Mrs. Ross – because they know I’m the best.  Do you have any idea how much my time normally costs?”

“Do you even know what pro bono means?”

This question brought Harvey up short.  He may have blushed a little as he remembered his earlier thoughts.  “What?”

“The term.  Pro bono.  It’s Latin.”

“Well, no shit.”

“I should start a goddamn swear jar,” muttered Edith.  Her knitting needles clicked and clacked furiously as she worked on something blue, which appeared vaguely sweaterish.

“So,” said Mike, with a smug look on his face which infuriated Harvey, and at the same time caused him to want to grab him and – _nope, do not go there –_ “what does it mean?”

Harvey growled under his breath.  “If I recall correctly from my Harvard education, it translates as ‘for the public good.’  What’s your point?”

“Simple.  You’re not just here doing a favor for your boss, or bestowing your largess upon us peasants.  You’re fulfilling a function which benefits society as a whole, serving as an equalizer to what would otherwise be a legal system unfairly weighted in the favor of the rich and powerful.”

After Harvey had stopped gaping at him, he let out a cynical laugh.  “What a load of – ”

“Whoa,” said Edith, pointing a knitting needle first at Harvey, and then swinging it around towards Mike.  “No more foul language, or I’ll be forced to break out my bar of soap.”

“Grammy, I’m a grown man.”

Harvey had to hold back a smile as he observed how quickly Mike went from self-righteous orator, to chastened grandson.  "Okay, kid.  You read something in a book once.  Consider me duly impressed.  It's irrelevant to the case at hand.  I've given my recommendation to – "   His gaze cut over to Edith, who had nodded off suspiciously fast, with a skein of fluffy blue yarn balanced on one knee and needles drooping.   He lowered his voice.  " -- to your grandmother."

"And she gave you her answer."

Harvey's brows furrowed.  "No.  No, I think that was you.  Or unduly influenced by you.  Fortunately, it's not your decision to make."

"I've discussed it with her plenty of times, and I know that she wants a fair price for her house, or she's not selling."

"Then what the fuck am I even doing here?"

"One dollar," muttered Edith with her eyes closed.

"Because," hissed Mike, "even though I know the law every bit as well as you –"

"Highly debatable."

"Even so, I'm not an attorney, and so I can't stand up in court and defend her interests.  That's what we hired you to do."

"Hired?  I think not.  I volunteered for this gig.  I'm just here for the public good, remember?"  Which was not entirely true.  Jessica had strong-armed and threatened him to get him here.

Mike's cheeks had gone vivid pink.  He darted a look at his grandmother before gesturing with his head toward the front door.  Getting the hint, Harvey followed him outside.

"Something you couldn't say in front of your grandmother?"

Mike's bit his lip, and his brows pulled down, as if he wasn't sure he should say whatever it was he'd come out here to say.  "Let me just lay it out for you.  Grammy doesn't know I know, but she's in the early stages of dementia.  Another six months, tops, and it's going to become really fucking hard for me to care for her properly at home.  I barely see this place, in between all my jobs.  The teachers’ union screwed her over, which means next to no pension.  She’s collecting Social Security, but I think you know how far that stretches."

"Will we be reaching the point anytime this year?"  Harvey spotted Ray, his driver, looking their way, and gave him a short nod.  They'd be done soon.

"Okay, I'll cut right to it.  The point is, she’s going to need long term care.  After all she's given up for me, she deserves to go into a quality facility, not some state-run shit hole.  I'm optimistic that the right place can provide a comfortable life for many years to come.  In case you've never researched it, that isn't cheap.  Are you getting my point yet?"

Harvey ordered his tugged-upon heartstrings to stand down.  "I'm sorry Mike, but I didn't create this situation.  You're both going to have to face up to reality.  If she takes the offer on the table, she'll still clear a sizable amount, even after the second mortgage is paid off.  If not, you’re looking at a forcible seizure, and you get what you get."

Mike bit his lower lip, appearing to hold back an angry retort.  "Just take our counter-offer back to the development company.  Do whatever you have to do.  Make them take it."

Harvey let out an aggrieved sigh.  He preferred clients who actually listened to his advice.  "First of all, it's not a counter-offer if we're just raising the price unilaterally.  I'm good, but if I pull that on them, it becomes less negotiation, and more bad performance art."

Mike eyed him steadily for several seconds.  "Then I guess you're fired."

Harvey clicked his tongue.  "Fine.  I never wanted this assignment."

"Fine.  Get off my grandmother's property."

“Sorry to break it to you, but it won’t be hers for long.”

When Harvey climbed back into the town car, he might have given the door a satisfying slam, but Ray had hurried over to close it for him.  As the car pulled away from the curb, he already had his phone out, firing off a text to Jessica, and checking with Donna to see where and when he was needed next.  

By the time they hit the bridge, he'd put Edith and Mike Ross firmly out of his head.

******

**Grammy**

Huh.  That was … not what I expected.  Where were the sparks?  Where were the goddamned fireworks?

Ah, crap.  What is this thing I knitted?  Three armholes, and no opening to get the head through.  I've had the damn pattern in my head for … _millennia_.  Shit.  

What now?  I can't rip the whole thing apart.  Too dangerous.  All I can do is keep knitting.  Maybe I'll call the third armhole decoration, and add the neck hole later.  That ought to get things back on track.  

Uh oh.  Here comes Michael.  He doesn’t look happy.  When did I get so bad at this?

******

**Mike**

Grammy was still dozing when Mike got back inside.  He needed to shower and head out to his bartending job.  The restaurant was only a few blocks away, which gave him the luxury of pausing for a minute or two to just breathe.  Even that proved a challenge, with his mind racing at a mile minute, trying to figure a way out of their dilemma.

His gaze fell upon the misshapen lump of knitted wool in Grammy’s lap.  He moved closer, kneeling in front of her, and gently pried it from her lax grasp.

“Holy …” he muttered.  “What the hell is this supposed to be?”  He turned the thing around and around, trying to make sense of it.  Unless she had another grandchild Mike had never met, with three arms and no head, it looked as if she’d messed the pattern up badly.  Thinking to help her, he slipped out the needle which held the last row, and began careful unraveling the stitches, his plan being to undo the third armhole before Grammy woke up.

He was perhaps halfway to his goal, when the world shifted crazily, and he grew dizzy.  He swayed on his knees, and reflexively yanked out several more rows of knitting, pausing only when he heard a gasp above him.

“Michael!  What are you doing?  Stop that immediately.”

Mike froze, giving her a sheepish smile.  “You weren’t supposed to wake up yet.”

She grabbed the knitting from him, clucking her tongue over the unraveled stitches.  “This is bad,” she muttered, “so very, very bad.”

“I only meant to fix it for you.”  Guilt warred with confusion inside him.  His head felt fuzzy, as if stuffed with cotton.  Was he having a stroke?  “It looked like you’d gotten off track.”

“I did no such thing.”  Her eyes took on a faraway look, and her mouth twisted, as if she was in pain.  “Michael, you need to get to Manhattan as soon as possible.”

“But my job – ”

“Forget about that.  Call in sick.  You are looking a bit peaked.  You need to get to Manhattan and stop Harvey Specter from doing something appallingly foolish.”

“Who?  What are you talking about?”

She peered closely at him.  “You don’t remember the man who was just here?”  Stroking her knitting project with one hand, she closed her eyes, humming softly.

“Grammy?  I think you should go lie down.  You’ll feel better after a nap.”

Opening her eyes, she stared at Mike.  For several seconds, it seemed as if she didn’t recognize him.  “What were we talking about?”

“You.  Nap.  Now.”  He gently pried the knitting from her hand and set it on the coffee table, and then helped her to her feet, and into her bedroom down the hall.  “I’ll fix you some dinner when I get off work.  Until then, you just rest, okay?”

“All right, James.”

“It’s Michael, Grammy.”

“Michael.  Of course it is.”

******

**Grammy**

_Shit._

Michael has no clue what he's done.  The knitting can only go in one direction:  forward.  You can never go back.  You can't just rip things out without consequences.  (My other sister, "U," might have a thing or two to say about this catastrophe.  I haven't spoken with her for eons, though.)  

Aw, hell.  Maybe I can get things back on course, if I can keep the fog out of my head for long enough.  Still, the next few days might prove confusing for Mike and Harvey.   A wild ride, indeed. 

I can already feel "V" working her sabotage.  Did I mention she was a bitch?  Poor Mr. Sorkin deserves at least one favorable timeline.  I've always meant to remedy that.  This may be my last chance.

Mike and Harvey, though … All I wanted was a nice little love story.  Easy as can be.  With kissing.  And maybe some fucking, if they happen to get around to it.  When did this all get so hard?

Where was I?  Knit one.  Purl two.  And away we go.  Better hold on tight, boys.

 ******

**Harvey**

Harvey and Ray were stuck in heavy traffic on the bridge when his phone rang.  He smiled when he saw who it was.

“Scottie.  Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?”

“I’m not in London.  I’m in Manhattan, staring into your empty office.  Where are you?”

"On my way back from Brooklyn."

"What were you doing in Brooklyn?"

Harvey opened his mouth to reply, and then realized he had absolutely no idea why he'd had Ray drive him to Brooklyn.  "I'll, ah, tell you over drinks and dinner?"

"Sounds good.  I have a lot to say to you."

They set a place and time, and Harvey hung up, anticipating an enjoyable night of wildly energetic and competitive sex.  He wondered what she wanted to talk about, and thought he had a good idea what it might be.  They last time she'd called him from London, she'd hinted that she was looking for a way back to New York permanently.  Maybe this time, things would work out between them.  

All of a sudden, the car seemed to jump and shimmy wildly.  Harvey clutched his head, wincing at the violent pounding which had begun inside his skull.  “What the hell was that?” he asked Ray.

Concerned eyes regarded him in the rearview mirror.  “What was what, boss?”

“I don’t know.  An earthquake, maybe?”

“I didn’t feel anything.”

Harvey shook his head to clear it.  The sharp headache had faded as quickly as it had come.  Weird, but evidently nothing to worry about.

***

Donna had Jessica on the phone when he finally made it back to the office.  He put her on speaker as he sat behind his desk and idly organized his workload.

"Success?" asked Jessica.

"Absolutely."  He had no idea what she was talking about, but the odds were excellent that he was telling the truth.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"It's not like you to check up on me like this, Jessica.  That seems a bit too … micromanagey for you."

"That's not why I'm calling.  I wanted to make sure you didn't forget to show up for your associate interviews this afternoon."

"This afternoon?  I could have sworn they weren't for two more days."

"Harvey, you need an associate.  Do no try to wriggle out of this."

"I wouldn't dream of missing it."  He'd forgotten all about the interviews until her call.

"Uh huh.  Choose wisely."

“You bet I will.”

******

**Mike**

Trevor didn't answer Mike's knocks, so he used his spare key to let himself into the apartment.  

Mike hadn't found any lawyers willing to take his grandmother's case pro bono.  She couldn't stay in the house much longer, not with him gone all the time, which is why he'd called in sick to the messenger company, and come here to take Trevor up on his offer to make a quick twenty-five thousand.

Except Trevor wasn’t here.  

Mike had his phone out to call him, when he spotted the messily scrawled note Trevor had left on the kitchen counter.

_"Couldn't stall my guys any longer.  I'm making the buy myself. - T."_

Mike groaned.  Could his luck get any worse?  "Why does the universe hate me?" he asked the empty apartment.

Either the apartment didn't have an answer, or it just wasn't talking.

******

"Rick Sorkin?"

Both Donna and Harvey eyed the assembled Harvard graduates expectantly.  A spindly, red-haired young man with a perpetually startled look on his freckled face stood up.  Harvey gestured for him to precede him into the next room, and then exchanged a meaningful look with Donna.  No wink.  Harvey sighed and followed Sorkin, frowning at the rip in the back of one pant leg, which also had a short strand of blue yarn stuck to it.

“Normally, people wear their non-ripped suits to these things,” he said, taking his seat behind the desk.

Sorkin twisted, trying to get a look behind himself, and ended up turning in a full circle.  “Shit.  Is it bad?  I’m sorry.  I’m a little rattled.  I nearly got hit by a taxi on the way here, but at the last second, I was pushed out of the way by this old woman who – I kid you not – stabbed me with a freaking knitting needle.  I’ll bet that’s how my pants got ripped.  I may or may not be bleeding.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“It’s, um, coagulated.  I think?”

“I don’t care.”

“Fair enough.  Uh …”  Sorkin fanned himself with one hand.  “I guess, just get this over with.  Ask me your questions.”  He sat in the chair across from Harvey, and clutched his knees.

Harvey sighed, and spoke in a bored monotone.  “What makes you think you’re qualified to work at Pearson Hardman as my associate?”

“Ah.  Well.  What makes anyone qualified?”

“Excuse me?”  It was an unusual enough response that it piqued Harvey’s interest.

“I mean, we all went to Harvard.  We all took the same classes, from the same professors.  We were all – I assume – in the top ten percent of our graduating class.  We’re all basically the same guy – or gal – with mostly minor variations in personality and background.  I could sit here and make the case that I’ll work harder and longer than anyone else, or that my hunger to exceed is the fiercest.  But you can’t know if that is true.  Hell, even I won’t know if it’s true until I’m tested in real life situations.

“So, you might as well choose me.  Or you could put all our names in a hat and draw one.  Odds are good you’ll get a competent associate.  The chances of picking a real dud are low.  And the chances of picking a freaking superstar, killer robot of an attorney are practically zero.  Pick me.  Don’t pick me.  But good luck distinguishing between all the other Harvard douches sitting out there, waiting to waste your precious time.”

“Huh.”  The kid made a compelling argument.  Asinine, but compelling.  Harvey had been at this for two hours, and couldn’t remember the name of even one of the previous candidates.  “You know what … was it Dick?”

“Rick.”

“Rick.  I’m bored.  I want to get out of here and go get a drink with an old friend.  Therefore, tag, you’re it.  Show up Monday morning, and we’ll see if we can’t turn you into a real attorney.”

“Wait, what?  That actually worked?”

“You spin a decent web of bullshit, for a rookie.  That shows potential.  Don’t ruin it with your false modesty.”

“Can I at least say thank you?”

“Granted.”

“And kiss your perfectly polished shoes?”

“Denied.”

“Ha ha.  Okay.  Boundaries.  Duly noted.”

“Go away.  And get a new suit before Monday.”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you again.  So much.  You won’t regret this.  I promise – ”

“Bored.”  Harvey flicked his fingers, as if shooing away an annoying insect.

Sorkin took the hint and made himself scarce.

Moments later, Donna’s voice came over the intercom.  “ _That_ guy?  Why?”

“Whimsy.  Get rid of the rest of them, will you?  I’m sneaking out the back way.”

“Are you returning to the office?”

“Nope.  Gone for the day.”

“Say hi to Scottie for me.”

***

The first thing Scottie said when Harvey slid onto the barstool next to her was, “Congratulate me, Harvey.”

“Congratulations.  What for?”

“I just got off the phone with Edward Darby.”  Her eyes shone with excitement.  “I’m getting my name on the wall.  They're announcing it as soon as I fly back to London.”

This was not what Harvey had expected to hear.  “But, I thought you were planning a move back here?”

She looked sheepish.  “Ah.  Yes, I was.  When I spoke with you earlier today, I was prepared to ask you for a job at your firm. But then ….”  She looked away, biting her lip.  “I can’t turn this down.  This is what I’ve been working for all these years.  Surely you can understand that?”

He understood.  She was every bit as driven as he was, which was part of the reason they’d never been able to make a lasting relationship work.  It was surprisingly disappointing.  Still, no need to let that ruin their evening.  “Absolutely.  Let me buy you dinner, and then we can go back to my place, where I can congratulate you in every way imaginable.”

“I can’t.  I just changed my return flight.  It leaves in an hour and a half.”

“Scottie …”

“I have to go.  Next time I’m in New York …”

“Yeah, sure.  You got it.”

He watched her walk away, white dress hugging her slender curves as her hips swayed.  Sighing, he polished off his drink, and reached for hers.  

He sat, staring into the middle distance, savoring the mellow scotch buzz, toying idly with a scrap of blue yarn stuck to the damp bar top, refusing to acknowledge the melancholy filling him at Scottie’s departure.  He should have learned by now that they were not destined to be together.  Next time she dangled some false hope in front of him, he’d be sure to keep his guard up.

The pretty waitress had been giving him interested looks since he walked in, which intensified now that he was alone.  He weighed the pros and cons of hitting on her, and ultimately decided that a quick, energetic fuck, even if it wasn’t with Scottie, would help dispel some of the anxiety racing through his veins.

He beckoned her over, asked her when she got off, arranging everything as neatly as ever.  Ten minutes before her shift ended, her replacement called in sick.  Regretfully, Harvey paid his tab, flicked a piece of blue fuzz from his lapel, and went home, unwilling to wait around for another six hours.  Luck, it seemed, was not on his side that night.

  ******

**Mike**

“She’s getting worse.”  Mike stretched full length on Trevor’s couch, frowning as he watched his friend hold his lighter’s flame to the bowl of a pipe, and suck pot smoke deep into his lungs.

“She’s getting old,” Trevor rasped, before exhaling.  “It happens.”

He offered the pipe to Mike, who waved it away.  “No, thanks.  My brain is fucked up enough as it is.”

“Your brain?”  Trevor gave a disbelieving laugh.  “You have the Cadillac of brains.  What are you even talking about?”

“I don’t know.  I lost a whole chunk of time the other day.  I have this weird, half-memory of this guy, who somehow seems important.  I can see his face so clearly.  I’ve dreamt about him three nights in a row.  But I’ve never even met him, I’m sure of it.”

“Weird.  What is so important about him?”

“I told you, I don’t know.  God, I’m so stressed about this _Klaxon & Corbel_ bullshit, I think my brain is just fried.  On top of all that, Grammy is declining faster than I thought she would.  When she’s not sleeping, she sits in the living room with the lights turned down low, and knits the strangest looking things.  I tried to help her a couple of days ago, and she just about lost it.”

“Maybe Edith should go ahead and sell.  That would give you enough to get her settled in a decent home, and you can worry about the rest later.”

“You never listen to me, do you?  What they’re offering now will barely cover her second mortgage.  I still need almost twenty-five thousand, just for the buy-in.  If you hadn't already made the delivery ...”

“What can I say?  You took too long to decide.  It was no walk in the park, either.  The cops had been tipped off, I had to make a run for it, and as I'm racing down the stairwell, the latch on the briefcase busts open, spilling pot everywhere.”

Mike couldn't help laughing at his friend.  "Shit, Trevor.  Only you.  What did you do?"

“I stuffed it back in as fast as I could, and kept running."  He shook his head, grinning.  "We still need to unload the weed.  My guys are already looking for another buyer.  They're a little skittish at the moment, but I could bring you down there, introduce you, and see if they'll give you the job."  

"Forget it.  My life is far enough off track as it is.  I don’t need a felony drug conviction to completely derail it.”

 “Then what are you going to do?”

Mike knew what he had to do, and had only been trying to work up the courage.  “I need to go in person to _Klaxon & Corbel,_ and convince them I know what I’m talking about.”  It was more complicated than that, but Trevor didn’t need to know the details.

“Suit yourself.”

“Speaking of which, can I borrow one of yours?”

Trevor was busy taking another hit from the pipe.  “One of my what?” he managed to get out, while holding smoke in his lungs.

“One of your suits.”

Trevor coughed harshly.  “What for?”

“Does it matter?”

After a moment’s consideration, Trevor gave Mike a goofy smile.  “Nah.  It doesn’t.  Help yourself, man.”

******

**Harvey**

“Why am I meeting with these people again?” asked Harvey.

Donna directed a look at him which clearly said, _Duh._   “Because they’re on your calendar.  Don’t believe me?  See for yourself.”  

She turned her computer screen partway around, so he could read what was on it.  There it was at two-thirty that day: a meeting with _Klaxon & Corbel Development.  _

“Who set the meeting?”

“Well, that’s obvious.”  Donna tried to stare him down, but gave up after a few seconds, which was weird enough in itself.  “I don’t know.  I don’t remember.”

“Great.  Am I supposed to go into this meeting completely unprepared?  I’ll look like an idiot.”

“Would you like me to call them and ask?”

“Then we’ll both look like idiots.”  He let out an aggrieved sigh.  “I’ll suck it up, and go find out what it’s about.  This is going on your annual review, though.”

“I haven’t had one of those in seven years.”

“Fine.  Your septi-annual review.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“I'm practicing for the meeting.”

 

******

While Ray drove him across town, Harvey relaxed in the back of the town car, trying and failing not to dwell on the face that had been haunting his dreams the last several days.  Blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, shaggy hair, large, graceful hands, a slender physique, and tight ass which simply begged to be – 

“Sir?  We’re here.”

Harvey shook himself and looked out the window.  The car idled in front of one of the nearly indistinguishable high-rise buildings at the edges of downtown Manhattan.  “Give me about an hour,” said Harvey.  “If I finish earlier, I’ll give you a call.”

“You got it, boss.”

Harvey exited the car, took a step toward the front doors, and then jumped backwards, out of the way of the bicyclist who had just come tearing down the sidewalk in front of him.  He watched the rider swerve to change direction before skidding to a stop in front of the building.  

Walking at a leisurely pace, Harvey passed behind him where he squatted to secure his bike to the rack.  The rider was wearing a suit of passable quality, although it hung a bit too loosely on the slender frame.Some not-quite-memory stirred inside of Harvey.  When the rider turned, and Harvey saw his face, he nearly dropped his coffee.  It was the same face he’d been seeing every night in increasingly erotic dreams.

The young man appeared to recognize him as well.  His eyes went wide, and his mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise before snapping shut.  He scowled at Harvey, which seemed uncalled for, considering he’d been the one to almost run him down.  

“What’s your problem?”

Harvey hid a smile.  The power suit, pugnacious expression, and aggressive opening salvo were all rendered ineffective by the ridiculous helmet the kid still wore.  He decided to treat him to some vintage Harvey Specter attitude, to show him how it was done.

“My problem?  Funny you should ask.  I didn’t have a problem until you nearly ran me down back there.  If you’re going to ride your toy bicycle around the adults, you really should watch where you’re going.”

“I – you –”  The kid huffed out an annoyed breath, seethed silently for several seconds, before yanking off his helmet and hanging it from a handlebar.  He seethed a few seconds longer, and then pointed a finger at Harvey.  “First of all, shut up.  Second, you seem familiar.  Have we met before?”

Harvey grinned, feeling a little bit evil, and a lot amused.  “Oh, I don’t think so.  I’d definitely remember you.”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, they began walking toward the front door together.  Harvey touched his back, and held the door open for him.  Maybe he had met the kid before, or seen him on the street, or maybe he hadn’t.  At that moment, he didn’t care about anything beyond the strong attraction he felt for him.  

“What’s your name?” Harvey asked, pushing the up arrow on the elevator.

The kid seemed to think long and hard about whether to answer, but finally bit out, “Mike Ross.”

The elevator doors opened, and Mike preceded him onto it.  He pushed the button for the thirty-ninth floor which, coincidentally enough, was where Harvey was headed.  Harvey stuck out his hand, a practiced smolder in his eyes.  “Harvey Specter.”

After a barely noticeable hesitation, Mike grasped his hand in his own warm, damp one, and they shook.  Harvey hid his surprise at the electricity which flowed from Mike’s hand and into his body.  To cover his shock, Harvey pasted a cheeky smile on his face and quipped, “Well, we’ve had our ‘meet cute.’  What’s next?  Dinner, followed by sweaty naked time?”

Mike carefully extricated his hand from Harvey’s grasp.  “Okay, weirdo, that’s about enough.  I’ve got more important things to deal with right now than whatever – ”  He waved his hands around in front of Harvey.  “ – than whatever _this_ is.”  He crossed his arms and leaned against the back wall of the elevator, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Jesus, whoever this Mike Ross person was, Harvey wanted to get to know him better.  He silently congratulated his sub-conscious for conjuring up such a delicious specimen, and considered his next move.

Perhaps Mike had the same notion, because he asked suddenly, "You're an attorney, aren’t you?

"I am.  What gave me away?"

No reply from Mike.  The elevator bounced to a stop and the doors _dinged_ , signaling that they had arrived.  Harvey hung back, allowing Mike to exit first.  He was debating whether or not he should trail Mike into whichever office he was visiting, but as it happened, he made directly for _Klaxon & Corbel._Harvey lifted his eyebrows and followed him.

They stood side by side at the front desk.

"Sir?" queried the receptionist.  "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but –"

"I do," said Harvey, hip-checking Mike, and receiving a glare in return.  "Harvey Specter."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Specter.  Mr. Klaxon and Mr. Corbel are waiting for you in conference room three, just down the hall.

"I'm with him," Mike interjected.  

Maybe it was the desperation Harvey sensed in Mike, or maybe it was his wide, blue eyes, fixed on Harvey as if trying to convey a message.  Or maybe Harvey simply wanted to ensure that he saw more of Mike.  Whatever the case, without missing a beat, he added, "this is my associate, Mike Ross."

The receptionist waved them through.  The walk to the conference room was short, leaving Harvey just enough time to wonder what the hell he was going to say to Messrs. Klaxon and Corbel.  He had deduced they were partners in a development company, but that was all.  And what business did Mike have with them?

When they entered the conference room, Mike repaid Harvey's earlier hip-check with one of his own, extending his hand to one of the partners, and all but shoving Harvey out of the way.

"Mr. Klaxon.  Good to meet you.  This is my attorney, Harvey Specter.  Have you been introduced yet?"

Harvey gave Mike a disbelieving stare, but turned smoothly and shook Klaxon’s hand, and then Corbel’s.  He opened his mouth to ask them what he could do for them, but once again, Mike was ahead of him.

“Have you had a chance to look over the offer Harvey sent you this morning?”

Robert Klaxon turned a quizzical look on Mike.  He was around Harvey’s age, with a doughy face, wiry, receding hair, and a toothy smile which had obviously been artificially whitened.  “I’m sorry.  You are …?”

“Mike Ross.  Grandson of Edith Ross.”  An awkward pause.  “She owns the building on east ninety-sixth?”

“Oh, right.  The stubborn one.”  He looked between Mike and Harvey.  “We didn’t get any offer.”

Mike whisked a folded page from the inside pocket of his suit.  “Then it’s a good thing I brought a copy with me.”  He held it out, and shook it until Klaxon took it.  He and his partner stood shoulder to shoulder, looking over the offer.

“Did you happen to bring a copy for me?” whispered Harvey out of the corner of his mouth.

Mike produced another copy, and gave it to Harvey, who glanced at it only long enough to recognize it as a proposed selling price on a house in what he knew to be a rundown section of Canarsie.  The price seemed high to him, but that wasn’t his primary concern.

Robert Klaxon and Toby Corbel were frowning and shaking their heads as they murmured back and forth to one another.

Harvey took a firm hold of Mike’s arm.  “Gentlemen, please excuse us while I confer with my client in the hallway.”  With no objection from the developers, he dragged Mike forcibly out of the room.  “Just what in the hell,” he growled at him, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to take care of my grandmother, just like she’s taken care of me for the last thirteen years.”  He attempted to yank his arm free of Harvey’s hold, but he held him too firmly.  “I-I’m sorry about lying in there.  I had a different plan in mind, and then you showed up, sort of like fate threw you at me.  I leaned into the situation.”

“Fate, huh?  More like fate nearly ran me over with a bicycle.”  He was enjoying the feel of Mike in his grasp, and their closeness.  Softening his tone, he asked, “What was your plan?  If I hadn’t shown up.”

Mike blushed.  “I was going to pass myself off as a lawyer.”

A jolt of alarm caused Harvey’s stomach to roil unpleasantly.  “Are you out of your mind?  Do you even know the penalties for that?  You could end up in prison.  How will your Grammy get by if that happens?”

Mike’s eyes widened.  “My what?” he whispered harshly.

Harvey frowned back at him.  “What do mean?  Your what, what?”

“You called her Grammy.  That’s what I’ve called her since I could speak.  How could you even know that?”

Harvey finally let him go, and took half a step back.  He had no clue how that particular name had found its way to his tongue.  “Lots of people …” he began uncertainly, before giving his head a rough shake.  “It’s not important.  What is important right now, is that you give me your promise that you will never consider such an idiotic idea as impersonating an attorney.”  He wanted to grab Mike’s shoulders and shake him, but kept his hands resolutely at his sides, fists clenched.

“I won’t, if you’ll play the part for me.”

“It’s not a part.  Not for me.”

“You know what I mean.”  A pause, followed by a heartfelt, drawn out, “Please.”

Harvey tilted his head, examining Mike closely.  “It’s that important to you?  Why?”

“I’ll explain everything later.  Right now, they’re watching us.  We need to get back in there.  You’ll negotiate this deal for me?”

He should have turned him down.  This whole situation was far out of bounds, and not the way he normally operated.  Still, he heard himself say, “Sure.  I’ll do it.  What kind of parameters do I have to work with?”

“You can come down ten percent, but no more than that.  If they won’t play ball, we walk.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game.  What if they claim eminent domain, and just grab the property from Gr—from your grandmother?”

“Except their project is a wholly private concern, and not for the public good.”  Mike froze scowling, as if disturbed by what he’d just said.

Harvey knew the feeling.  It almost felt as if he’d recently heard the exact same words from Mike, but he’d only just met him.  “I’ll do my best,” he said distractedly, “but you’re on shaky ground here.” 

The conference room door opened, and Toby Corbel stuck his head out.  He was nearly indistinguishable from his partner, except that he was shorter, rounder, and wore a flashier tie.  “You gonna be all day?  We do have other appointments.”

Harvey touched Mike’s lower back, and ushered him back into the room.

******

**Mike**

It would have been distracting enough, having this ridiculously handsome man’s hand on him, without the added strangeness of running into him (almost literally) at random, just when he'd needed an attorney.  Add to that the way he spoke Grammy’s name, as if he’d been part of Mike’s life for more than ten minutes.  All highly disconcerting, but he couldn’t think about any of that now.  He’d put his and Grammy’s fates into the hands of a complete stranger – who should have felt more like a stranger, and less like the part of him that had been missing all his life.  If this didn’t work, he’d have to give in and make the delivery for Trevor.  

As the four men sat on opposite sides of the conference table, with Harvey at his side, Mike breathed slowly in and out, trying to remain calm.

“Well,” said Harvey, “can we sign on the dotted line and get on with our days?”

Mike had suspected it wouldn’t be that easy, and he was right.  Klaxon and Corbel put up a valiant fight, but the random attorney Mike had met out on the sidewalk turned out to be the shark of all sharks, who swallowed guppies like Klaxon and Corbel as an _amuse-bouche_.   He dazzled them (and dazzled Mike) with facts and figures, precedent and naked threats, and ultimately got them agree to pay Grammy nearly the full asking price Mike had brought with him, less three percent.  Which was amazing, and more than he’d expected.

They walked out together, neither speaking until they were alone on the elevator.

“Holy shit, you were incredible,” whispered Mike.  Tears pooled in his eyes, reaction from the release of long-held anxiety.  “How can I ever thank you?  If there is anything I can do, just name it.”

“Hm.”  Harvey eyed him out of the corner of his eye.  “Good thing you had me in there.  Your negotiation technique sucks, by the way.”

Mike huffed his annoyance.  “Way to ruin the moment.  I wasn’t negotiating just now.  I was showing my gratitude.”

An easy laugh from Harvey.  “I know.  It’s just that you’re so cute when you get riled up.”  He waited two beats.  “Oddly enough, I was happy to help.  And I know exactly how you can thank me.”

“Is this going to involve something filthy I need to Google to learn about?”

Harvey set a hand on his shoulder.  “Not on the first date … not unless you want to.  I was only going to suggest that you let me take you to dinner.  After that, we’ll see where the night goes.”

“Hm.  Okay.”  He should be offering to buy Harvey dinner, but he doubted he could afford it.

Outside the building, Harvey gestured toward a black Lexus waiting at the curb.  “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Actually, would you mind taking a ride to Brooklyn?  I’d like you to meet the woman who you just rescued.”

“And here I thought I was rescuing you.”

“That too.  But she’ll want to meet you.  Please?”

Harvey held the car door for Mike, who scooted across to the far seat.  When Harvey settled in beside him, all of Mike’s residual tension melted away.

“Please,” said Harvey in a low, musing tone of voice.  “That sounds good coming out of your mouth.  I hope I get to hear it many more times in the future.”

Mike went warm all over.  “Does that mean you’re coming to Brooklyn with me?”

With a proprietary hand on Mike’s leg, Harvey nodded.  “Did you get that, Ray?  Set a course for Brooklyn.”

******

**Harvey**

The rundown brownstone on east ninety-sixth felt eerily familiar to Harvey, even though logically, he knew he’d never been there before.  The living room was empty when they entered, and Mike went looking for his grandmother.

Harvey eyed the dusty figurines, the floral upholstery, and the baskets of knitting, and a shiver went down his spine.  He could hear soft conversation from down the hallway, Mike calmly exhorting, answered by a quavering, querulous voice.  Perhaps ten minutes passed, and then Mike poked his head into the hallway.

"She'd rather not get out of bed right now.  Can you come back here for a second?"

He would have preferred not to intrude, but could think of no graceful way to refuse.  He stood in the doorway to her bedroom, finding her sitting up in bed, appearing tired and rumpled, just as he'd pictured her, except for her sharp eyes, which took in every detail of him.

“Grammy, this is Harvey Specter.  He’s the attorney I was just telling you about, who took your case pro bono.”

Her blues eyes shone with mischief.  “ _Pro bono_?  Don’t you mean, _pro boner_?”

“Grammy!”

Harvey’s eyes bugged out of his head at hearing the crude term fall from the old woman’s lips.  He laughed uncertainly.  “Ah.  Okay.  You’ll be receiving some paperwork to sign in the next couple of days.  After that, you’ll have thirty days to vacate the building.”

She let out a long sigh, as if even lying in bed was too exhausting.  “That’s good.  It’s about time for me to move along.  Before I do, I’d like to hear what your intentions are regarding my grandson.”

“My intentions?”  He had plenty of filthy intentions for the immediate future, but wasn’t about to share them with her.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.  There’s a lot of ways this could go.  You ignore your feelings, and moon over him like a lovesick calf for the next ten years.  You bag him and leave him, just like you do everyone else who has ever caught your eye.  Or … maybe this time you follow your better instincts and figure out a path to a happily ever after.”

“Grammy ...”  Mike had turned bright red.   “We just met, like barely an hour ago.”

“Bah.  When you know, you know.”

Her blunt words struck a chord with Harvey.  He wasn’t sure how, but he did know.  He wanted Mike now, tomorrow, and forever.  He’d never felt this for anyone else.  It was crazy, irrational, illogical, and absurdly reckless, which was why he wasn't about to admit it out loud.  Not yet.  Instead, he said, "I assure you, I have no intention of hurting your grandson in any way."

That seemed to satisfy her.  She reached for a basket of blue yarn, but then changed her mind, flapping a hand at it.  

“Can I get you different project?” asked Mike.

“No.  I think I’m done with that.  I’ve done my share of knitting.  Let someone else take over.”  

Harvey glanced at his watch.  “I need to get back to the office.  What time should I pick you up for dinner?”

“Seven-thirty?”

“Perfect.  It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Ross.”

“Likewise, I'm sure.”

Mike walked with Harvey back to the living room, where they regarded one another silently for a few moments.

"This has been a strange day," said Harvey.

"Agreed."  Mike laughed, sounding nervous.  "Actually, I've felt … _off_ … all week.  Up until …"

"Until what?"

Mike shook his head, staring at the floor.

Harvey advanced on him, backing him up until his back was to the wall.  He trapped him there, with one hand on either side of his head.  "You don't have to say anything," he murmured.  "I already know the answer.  Because I've felt a little off all week, too.  The moment I regained my equilibrium, was the moment when you turned around, and I recognized you."

"Recognized?"

"Like you grandmother said, when you know, you know."  

Mike's gaze dropped to Harvey's mouth.  "And so?  Now what?"

"And now … "  Harvey grabbed Mike's lapels, and pulled him in until their chests touched.  "Now, kiss me nice."

Mike kissed him real nice.

******

**Grammy**

There.  Did you see that?  Fireworks.  Thunder and lightning.

And plenty of tongue.

(Picture me with the vapors, fanning myself vigorously.)

Both those horn dogs are already imagining how it will go tonight, after they get dinner out of the way.    Who knew my Michael was such an inventive young man?  And Harvey … oh, my stars.

I think it's safe to leave the rest to them, don't you?  Once they've had a taste of one another, there's no turning back.

As for me, it's time to move on, to where, I'm not sure.  One thing I do know is that in all of the eternities to come, if I forget everything else, I will never forget that kiss.

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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